


Spaces Between

by aubkae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:02:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubkae/pseuds/aubkae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John watches Sherlock wander through the flat staring at everything like it's all new, touching random objects as if they can tell him something he doesn't already know. Their eyes meet. They look away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spaces Between

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Sammy for making this better and for being patient with my angsting and my endless questions.
> 
> Also in [Chinese](http://www.mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=92321&extra)!

Sherlock is standing by the window in the dark when John comes downstairs, a black on grey silhouette against the weak light. It's been raining for three days. He hasn't seen Sherlock in sunlight... since. 

John goes into the toilet without speaking. It's full of steam, and it smells of Sherlock's soap and aftershave. Turning on the light makes him squint.

He has this sudden and bizarre urge to write on the fogged mirror – something, anything, no and no and yes and yes and why and how could you and fuck fuck _fuck_ how am I supposed to live like this, tell me _tell me_. A note left in invisible ink. Shards of glass all over the floor.

John takes a deep breath, inhaling the evidence, and he wipes the mirror clear.

\---

Sherlock looks out of place in the flat and on the street, as if reality is a composite shot in a film and you can just see the edges where it doesn't quite blend. John knows that he's looking for them, the edges, the flaws in the picture, and that's a bit not good, isn't it?

He brushes his elbow against Sherlock's as they walk down the street, fabric against fabric and the heat of skin underneath. It surprises him every time. 

Sherlock sweeps through rooms and past people the same as before, but it's all so subtly wrong; he's too careful, controlled and deliberate and oddly subdued. You'd miss it, if you didn't know him. John knows Sherlock, except when he doesn't know him at all.

He watches Sherlock wander through the flat staring at everything like it's all new, touching random objects as if they can tell him something he doesn't already know. 

Their eyes meet. They look away.

John makes tea for the both of them; they sit on the couch holding steaming teacups and staring straight ahead. They keep the curtains drawn.

\---

Sherlock takes every case offered to him, even though most are merely human dramas – passion and revenge and greed and pain. Sentiment. Boring, Sherlock would say, before. Now, he goes through his process with a kind of grim determination, silent except when he outlines his findings. It's more like a mathematical proof than his usual chaotic spill of information, and it's at that thought that John understands. This is Sherlock showing his work. 

John writes blog drafts that he doesn't post. They collect in the drafts folder on his laptop, untitled. He catches Sherlock reading them, and Sherlock gives him a tentative smile. 

"Find an interesting case, won't you?" John says, keeping his voice even and light. "Something that people will want to read about." He sets a plate of beans on toast at Sherlock's elbow.

Sherlock ducks his head behind the laptop screen. "Not my fault criminals haven't any imagination these days." He glances up, face carefully neutral. John quirks one side of his mouth, and Sherlock bites his lip. He looks at his plate, but John can see the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

Something in John's chest aches and settles. It reminds him of stretching muscles once bullet-damaged and unused, the painful sharp release of it before movement begins to come easier. 

He starts giving the blog drafts ludicrous titles, smiling when he hears Sherlock's bursts of laughter; he presses preview again and again, and life stumbles on.

\---

"You have to sleep," John says finally, after Sherlock's swayed on his feet for days, shaking from too much caffeine, forearms sticky with nicotine patches. "Tonight. Right now, preferably."

"I can't, I keep dreaming I wake up somewhere else and have to do it all over again, it seems so plausible, I couldn't bear to go back to that, it's safer this way," Sherlock mumbles, and then stills. His bloodshot eyes meet John's so briefly that John's not sure they really did, and then he spins and disappears into his bedroom. 

Sherlock plays the violin when John has nightmares, when he wakes gasping and thrashing and smelling blood and sand (blood and gunpowder, blood and hospital, blood and London morning). They've never talked about it. 

John sits in the kitchen with a cup of tea and a novel and the telly on behind him; he stays there until dawn. They don't talk about this either.

Sherlock makes coffee in the morning, strong with a splash of milk. Their fingers touch as the mug passes between them; they linger for a heartbeat, and part.

\---

The air is rich with spice and heated from the stove when John gets back. Sherlock is sitting at a mostly cleared and set table with an open textbook, his shoulders hunched around his ears. 

John opens and closes his left hand, considering, and then he takes off his coat. Sherlock watches John's hands instead of his face. 

"I'm trying, John," he says. His voice is low and edged and slightly choked. John is reminded of desperate drinking by a fireplace, reminded of standing in the street looking into the sun. 

"I know." It comes out with a stronger undertone of suppressed anger and bitterness than he really intended, and Sherlock flinches.

"All right," he says quietly.

John steps forwards at his tone, and then he stops. "Don't... it's... I appreciate it, I do." 

Outside, at least four cars honk. John listens for the crash, a corner of his mind recalling the location of his medical bag, his muscles tensed in preparation to turn and run outside. But there's only a squeal of tyres and then traffic noise as usual. 

He's so relieved he feels almost dizzy, his reaction out of proportion. He's not sure he knows how to react normally to anything anymore; he's not sure if he wants to.

"Sherlock," he begins, and then pauses. 

Sherlock keeps staring at John's hands as the silence extends. "I don't know what to do," Sherlock says finally. "I can't change the past. I can't fix... I..."

John takes a step forward, stops, takes another, puts his hand over Sherlock's. "We'll be fine," he says, and is a little surprised, still, to find that he believes it. 

Sherlock makes a low sound in the back of his throat, pure muffled distress, but he doesn't move away.

John closes his eyes and takes his hand back. "How long 'til dinner?" he asks, too loud and overly casual. "Smells delicious."

"Not long now," Sherlock says. His fingers twitch, and he turns a page of his book. "Open the wine, will you?"

John sips at a glass of wine at the table while Sherlock fusses with the food, watching his friend move around the kitchen in a mix of careful grace and anxious tension. He wonders what it would be like, to try to learn how to repair a friendship now, like this, instead of decades ago after childhood rows. 

He takes a deep breath, rides the waves of anger and betrayal and sympathy and pity and caring and resentment and joy and hurt. He stretches his neck to one side and then to the other.

Sherlock presents him with a plate, giving him a half-smile. He sits down with a plate himself, even though he's not quite finished with the current case. He hasn't even tried to resist everyone's attempts to feed him back up to a healthy weight... since.

"Don't think you're getting out of cooking anymore," John says in as normal a tone of voice as he can manage. "Why do we get so much take-away again?"

Sherlock half-hides his pleased expression behind his glass. "I am a chemist, John. Cooking involves executing a series of simple procedures. I just tend to lack the necessary motivation." 

"But not now."

Sherlock's eyes drop, then meet John's. 

John sighs. "Sorry."

"No. It's... fair." Sherlock pauses, fork hovering, and then he leans in a little. "I think you'll find that cooking is the very least of the things I would do for you." He holds John's gaze until John looks away.

"Simple procedures or not, this is delicious," John says after a moment. "I feel like we should have a candle on the table instead of some beakers and a book on forensic pathology." 

Sherlock looks taken aback, then uncertain. "I thought that you wouldn't want –" He cuts himself off.

They stare at each other for a moment. John wants to say that he was only joking, except that maybe he wasn't, a creeping realization coming over him, cold and heat up his spine and a pulling in his chest. He presses his lips together and calls himself a fucking idiot. 

He watches Sherlock's eyes move: pupils dilating as he examines John's face, his hands, his shirt, the table, his face again. 

There should be a variant of the married-to-my-work speech or an abrupt change of subject any moment now. That would be reasonable. He should want that. The expression on Sherlock's face is merely exasperation, obviously, and didn't he learn anything back at the beginning when things were still almost uncomplicated?

John realizes that he's holding his breath. He startles when Sherlock moves. 

One long pale hand darts out to the side, grabs an empty Petri dish from the stack, and sets it in the centre of the table with a series of trembling clinks. "Candles and matches in the cupboard," Sherlock says. His voice is neutral, but John knows what Sherlock's nonchalant mask looks like.

John thinks that maybe he should consider this. He gets a candle instead, sets it on the Petri dish, and strikes a match.

\---

The cases pick up rapidly. Sherlock starts shouting people out of the flat when they're too boring; John mostly fails at looking like he disapproves.

John finds himself touching Sherlock every time they're within touching distance, just a simple brush of fingertips on his hand, his elbow, his wrist, his shoulder. Sherlock's skin is soft, flesh over bone, warm and solid, present and real. It still surprises him sometimes. 

Sherlock notices, of course. He starts watching John so intensely that John fancies he can feel the pressure of his gaze as a physical weight. He starts touching back. 

They spend quite a lot of time within touching distance lately.

John hasn't been particularly fussed about what people say about them for a long while now. Grieving widower seemed a close approximation of how he felt, in the aftermath, if any term could describe it at all. Labels are meaningless when the only word that really matters is 'dead.'

He starts posting cases on his blog, several at once with no mention of the lack of updates, no explanation or apologies. It's not the fans that he's posting for right now.

"As ever, you fail to report all the important details and make me sound like the protagonist of the sort of novel people buy in airports to leave on the aeroplane," Sherlock says, and then he grins.

"Shut up," John says, poking him in the ribs. "Anyway, I made you sound like a superhero in that one, you could at least be accurate if you're going to be insulting."

He runs one fingertip along the back of Sherlock's neck, fine hairs raising to follow his touch, and neither of them breathes.

\---

John is running through the hallways of a rather unsavoury and dilapidated block of flats, following Sherlock and followed by two men with knives. He's not really sure how this happened; he's enjoying himself too much to care.

He vaults down the staircase and scrambles over a wall after Sherlock. They duck down an alley that smells of stale beer and vomit, John following Sherlock over the edge of a skip in rather a hurry. 

They try to settle in quietly, but the plastic bags in the skip are slippery and John's concerned about what they might contain. It seems like household waste, but in a neighbourhood like this, used needles are a distinct and worrisome possibility. He tries not to touch anything.

Sherlock leans forward to peer over the side, ignoring John's frantic hand signals. John closes his eyes with a sigh, and then wades through the bags to get closer in case he needs to yank Sherlock back or return fire over his head. 

John's nearly within touching distance when Sherlock loses his balance, flails a bit, and catches himself with one hand on a bag.

"Mooooooooo."

John jumps in startlement, then inhales noisily and tries to muffle his laughter in his sleeve. 

"What the –" 

"Child's toy? I don't know!" Sherlock's words break off into smothered chuckles as he clings to the metal side, wobbling. John grabs his elbow to help him balance, braces himself against the side of the skip. He's standing on something solid while Sherlock sinks into soft bags, making John the taller for once.

Someone runs past, and then someone else. John can feel Sherlock shaking with the effort of keeping quiet. John starts listing the bones of the hand to himself, his head tipped up and his lips pressed together to keep the laughter in. It's not particularly effective.

Sherlock shifts and whatever it is moos again. John's laughter escapes in a snort, and Sherlock loses his battle to stay upright, catching himself half on the side of the skip and half on John's chest. They laugh so hard that they can't breathe, leaning against each other, gasping. Nobody shoots at them, which is good because John's not sure he could aim at the moment.

He can hear his own heartbeat, rapid with adrenaline. He's so happy he feels a bit dizzy. He realizes that Sherlock is making little gasping half-giggle sounds right against his neck, and everything becomes a lot less funny all at once. 

Sherlock's body is a warm weight against his side, pressed together from knee to shoulder, arm across John's chest. If he turned his head a little they would be face to face, barely centimetres apart. John swallows hard and is suddenly, intensely glad that the skip reeks of rotting fruit and used cat litter.

He peers over the edge of the skip, sees only an empty alley, disentangles himself from Sherlock's limbs, and hauls himself out. Sherlock follows, brushing at his trousers and grinning. 

"Chinese?" John says. Sherlock turns to stare at him, eyes tracking all over. John wonders what he's looking for, what he's seeing, and he doesn't bother to lie to himself about the cause of his own pounding heart. 

John lifts his jumper to replace his gun at the small of his back. Sherlock's gaze skips down and then snaps back up to his face.

"Got your breath back?" Sherlock says with a slow crooked smile. John grins at him and turns towards the street, and they run and they run and they run. 

\---

Not even 24 hours later, a jewel-thief hits Sherlock in the face with a lamp. The thief goes out the window; John sends a pre-written 'get here now' text to Lestrade and goes to Sherlock. 

He's swearing and bleeding, hand against his face. John pulls him out into the hallway where there's a functional light, presses him down into a sitting position against the wall, drops to his knees and pulls Sherlock's hand away to check the damage. 

The wound is to Sherlock's right temple. Blood runs down his face, sticks his hair to his forehead. His skin is pale, his eyes too blue, and everything in John's head just... stops.

He can smell the blood, the lorry exhaust, the perfume of the woman who had held him when he collapsed. He can hear the traffic noise and the babbling voices and the roaring in his ears.

"Well my shirt is ruined –" 

John watches a drop of blood splatter on the floor. Somehow, he's sitting down now, his legs sprawled.

"Probably have to shave around it, correct? Hope my hair covers it, I'll look ridiculous –"

John sucks in a gasping breath as his body reminds him that it actually does require air, and then he holds on to the breath because it feels like it's going to come out as a sob or a scream.

"John?"

He can see the moment when Sherlock makes the connection. There's a second of frozen shock, and then Sherlock lunges forwards, thighs bracketing John's outstretched legs. He grabs John's left hand and shoves it against his own throat.

Sherlock's pulse is fast against his fingertips; he counts it without conscious thought. Sherlock is pressing his hand too hard, fingertips digging into the bones of John's knuckles. Sherlock's blood drips onto his fingers, and John takes a deep, shaky breath, raising his gaze from Sherlock's throat, up to his half-open mouth, his flushed cheeks, his wide eyes.

Sherlock's expression is as unguarded as John has ever seen it. John can't parse the specifics, doesn't know if he wants to try. 

He moves automatically to pull off his jumper and press on the wound. Sherlock avoids his eyes but lets him tend to it. "John, I –"

"Later." John's hand is shaking so hard he can barely hold the jumper, and he shifts his weight off of his cramping leg. Sherlock makes a quiet noise, shutting his eyes, swallowing again and again.

\---

Three hours later, they walk into their flat, toeing off shoes and shedding jackets. They sit on the sofa without speaking. 

The dawn light creeps in through the windows, a gold-tinged slow reveal of the paper-covered disaster of the sitting room. 

John takes a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. "I have something to say to you."

"Yes," Sherlock says, and he pulls up his knees. John can just see the outline of his hair, the curve of his shoulders, the pale of his hands against his dark trousers and shirt. The white square of gauze.

"People don't get the chance to say the things they wish they'd said, regretted not saying, when someone – I've said this to your – to your _headstone_ , and I haven't said it to you, which is just –" 

John swallows. He can hear Sherlock breathing, too light and too rapid.

"You – were, you _are_ the best thing that ever happened to me, my best – my best friend. I'm still... very angry with you, so angry that sometimes I can't even stand to look at you, and I'll probably never fully get over that... but all that I wanted – all that I wanted that whole horrible time was for you to not – to not be –" He has to pause and breathe deeply for a moment. "Everything was empty without you, and it was – it was the best moment of my life seeing you there alive." 

Sherlock is watching him, knuckles white where he's clutching at his shins.

John laughs a little; it comes out honest and warm and a bit manic. "I'm utterly mad, you know. It's apparently incurable, because this life, my life with you. It's what I want. For as long as I can have it. So. There it is." 

Sherlock lets out a long shuddering breath, followed by a short sharp inhale. "John. I –" 

He reaches out and grabs John's hand, fumbling a little in the half-light. John can feel violin calluses against his palm, the damp heat of nervous sweat. It's oddly heartening and deeply endearing. He rubs his thumb over an acid scar on Sherlock's wrist, outlining its exact shape by memory.

"I have something to say as well. The work –" John can hear Sherlock swallow, watches his throat move. "One day, I may never work again. I may leave London for somewhere... quiet. Spend the rest of my days... I don't know, conducting chemical research, or writing about tobacco ash, or keeping bees –"

"Bees?" John interrupts, smiling. He can see it, wants to see it, Sherlock as an old man frowning at beehives with joy in his eyes. 

"Bees are fascinating and complex creatures," Sherlock says, mock offended, and then his voice drops low and serious. "John. Please. Do you – do you understand? When I was – elsewhere, I missed the work, I missed this city, of course I did, I belong here, it's who I am, but—"

They sit in silence for a moment, breathing carefully.

"I want it too," Sherlock says, his hand tightening on John's. "For as long as I can have it." 

"All right," John says. "That's... all right." He runs his free hand through his hair, lightheaded with relief. He hesitates, hand hovering, and then he brushes his fingertips over Sherlock's cheekbone, up to the edge of the bandage. He thinks about the fragility of the bones of the skull, the amount of blood in the human body, how very improbable it is that the two of them are here right now.

"I may be concussed," Sherlock says abruptly. John's taken aback for a moment, but then Sherlock continues. "So you have to stay with me."

"Think we just established that I'll stay with you always," John says gently, and he watches Sherlock's jaw do something complicated. John's usual blend of affection and fascination crests and breaks and settles. 

He's done quite a number of inadvisable and insane things in his life; this is just another one for the list. It's a pretty long list. He's rather fond of most items on it. 

John closes the distance between them, slowly enough so that Sherlock could make excuses or turn away if he wanted. Sherlock just swallows hard and leans in to meet him.

The kiss is soft, and slow, and it doesn't feel strange at all. John's last lingering apprehension continues to dissolve as they press in closer, Sherlock's breath mingling with his. There's very little about his life that fits a convenient label anymore. It's actually sort of reassuring that this doesn't either.

He slides his fingers into Sherlock's hair, deepens the kiss when Sherlock's lips part for him. Sherlock's hand hovers, lands on his shoulder, and then moves to cup his face and pull him close.

John smiles at the expression on Sherlock's face when they break apart – his eyes still closed, his brow furrowed, his mouth slightly open, as if he's found a particularly intriguing piece of evidence. Sherlock's eyes open, and one corner of his mouth crinkles up, crooked and genuine.

John smiles back, and then he yawns. "I'm well knackered," he admits, squeezing Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock looks down at their hands and blinks. "You should sleep a bit too. I'll set my alarm so I can wake up and check on you."

"All right," Sherlock says. "Do you want... should we... it'll be more convenient for you if..."

John wants to kiss him again, so he does. "Yeah," he says. "I do. And not just because it'll be more convenient, though yes if you're going to be logical about it that is true."

Sherlock searches his face for a few seconds and licks his lips. "Fine. That's fine."

Sherlock brushes his teeth while John goes upstairs to find pyjamas. When John finishes in the loo he finds Sherlock stretched out on his back on the right side of the bed, even though he knows Sherlock usually sleeps in the middle or on the left.

"You like a clear path to the door," Sherlock says as John stands there and smiles at him. "Not a difficult deduction. Coming?"

John resists making an immediate and probably overly blatant retort and climbs into bed, leaning over Sherlock to turn off the bedside lamp. When Sherlock cautiously reaches for him, John pulls him close, waits out the awkward too-many-limbs adjusting moments, and falls asleep with his face in Sherlock's hair.

\---

John wakes alone and walks out of Sherlock's bedroom to find Sherlock making omelettes. He looks over at John and then back at the food, his whole body tense and his face blank. He's apparently been up for a little while, because his hair is in damp curls at the back of his neck. 

"Are you changing your mind or are you seducing me?" John asks, keeping his tone light with some effort.

Sherlock blinks, then his mouth twitches and he relaxes a bit. "I can't just want omelettes?"

"If you just wanted omelettes you would have woken me up and told me to make them. These are meaningful omelettes. I know you."

"Yes," Sherlock says. "You do, don't you."

They look at each other for a moment, then John sighs and rubs his face. "I'm for the shower. Carry on with the omelettes, I'll be quick about it."

"Not the former, no, but not really the latter either," Sherlock says when John walks back into the kitchen in a towel, having left his robe upstairs. He pauses and stares. John doesn't think he's much to look at, but it's difficult to feel self-conscious when you can actually watch Sherlock Holmes' brain derail at the sight of your bare chest.

"You sure about that?" John says, stepping forward with a smile. "Because I'd be amenable."

Sherlock's eyes widen and he seems to retreat without actually stepping backwards. "I – well –"

"Listen," John says, stopping. "If you don't want –"

"No, stop," Sherlock interrupts. "Whatever conclusions you're currently drawing, they're wrong." He rubs both hands through his hair, takes a slow breath, deliberately relaxes. "Let me be clear. I do want. And I'm not – I don't need to be coddled."

"I didn't say that you did," John says, although he's guilty of thinking it a time or two. No, that's not true... there's a difference between coddling someone and treating them with care, and he hopes he's firmly in the latter category. "I'm just going to put clothes on, okay?"

Sherlock speaks in the direction of the wall when John comes back into the kitchen. "It's like with food and sleep – I routinely ignore my body in favour of my brain, but that doesn't mean –" He pauses and leans on the counter. John can't help but admire the long line of his back. "It's easier to ignore, since I won't actually die or go mad without it, so –"

"Right," John says when Sherlock doesn't finish his sentence. "Just letting you know it's still all fine. All of it, really." He grapples for a beat with the awkward moment, and then defaults to "Tea?"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock says. He lets go of the counter and scoops the omelettes onto plates. 

John puts the kettle on, and then finds himself pinned against the counter with Sherlock's face an inch away from his own. Sherlock's eyes move rapidly, scanning John's face, and then he presses his lips to John's, hard and deep and needy from the first touch. 

"Right," John says again as Sherlock backs up a bit to stare at him. "That's... fine. Very. Fantastic, actually."

Sherlock ducks his head a little and smiles. "Incoherence, John?"

"You just wait," John says, stroking the small of Sherlock's back. "I'll have you incoherent yet."

Sherlock looks startled and intrigued, but there's that impression that he's retreating without moving again. He seems to catch himself at it and winces.

"Just so you know, I don't have a timeline here," John says. "Or expectations, really. I'm pretty much making it up as I go along."

"I know," Sherlock snaps, then closes his eyes tightly and sighs. "There are reasons I don’t do this."

John can figure some of it out, but it's not as if they've ever had a frank discussion about it, even in the wake of Irene Adler. "Do you... want to talk about it?" 

Sherlock runs his hands through his hair again, leaving it even more of a chaotic mess. "I suppose I must. You think I've been through some sort of trauma, or possibly don't experience sexual attraction at all, and you're preparing yourself to be supportive regardless."

"Er," John says, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"I haven't, and I do, although I'm far from obsessed with it. No, it's just as I've already said. I've always ignored it, and no one has wanted – people aren't generally worth the trouble. Boring, really." Sherlock says it with harsh disdain and wounded eyes, and he looks away.

"I don't expect you to stop being yourself," John says gently. "We... we honestly have been doing most of this, most of a relationship, for a long time now. This isn't a redefinition. It's an... exploration of all aspects of... us, whatever we are. An exploratory study, if you like."

"Using scientific terminology in an attempt to put me at ease, really John," Sherlock says, but there's no bite in it. His hand twitches and then he reaches up to run it through John's hair, carefully, as if he's not sure how John will react. 

John kisses his palm. "Let's just eat now, before your omelettes get cold." 

They eat omelettes, and after John does the dishes he watches a terrible science fiction movie while Sherlock argues with someone on the internet. It's casually domestic in a way it hasn't been since... before, and he thinks he may have missed this more than anything else.

"Me too," Sherlock says, quietly. John doesn't bother to comment on Sherlock answering his thoughts. 

"I'm glad we have this again," he says. Sherlock hums in agreement and resumes typing furiously.

"That movie is improbable and asinine," Sherlock announces after a while.

"Yep," John says, watching a particularly fine bit of overacting.

There's a pause. John looks over, catching the uncertainty in Sherlock's face before it's covered up. "I was going to read on the sofa," Sherlock says, almost a question. John turns off the telly, hiding a smile.

They spend most of the afternoon reading on the sofa, Sherlock's legs over John's lap and John's right arm resting on Sherlock's shins, occasionally drawing absent spirals.

\---

A kidnapping takes over the next two days, the comfortable afternoon shattered by the arrival of a frantically weeping woman and her quietly seething husband. John runs interference between them and Sherlock, who has never been able to deal with tears and narrowly avoids being punched by the father of the kidnap victim on two separate occasions. 

Sherlock paces through the flat muttering to himself as the kidnapper's threats get more serious and time runs out. There's little John can do but keep him supplied with tea and whatever bites of food he can be tricked into consuming. John barely sleeps. Sherlock doesn't sleep at all.

"If I offer you a neck massage would that be helpful or annoying?" John says finally, watching Sherlock stretch his neck and flinch.

Sherlock looks startled. "I... don't know."

"Well, let's try it, and you can tell me to bugger off if need be," John says. "You look in pain. Can't be good for thinking."

Sherlock takes a moment to relax as John kneads at the muscles of his neck and shoulders, but he's back to muttering about paint chips and paper quality in no time. John mostly tunes it out, just enjoying having Sherlock under his hands.

"This is what we do now, then."

John pauses, startled out of his thoughts by the sudden clear sentence amidst the quiet rambling. "Well. Yes? Do you mean the massage, or...?" He leaves his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, uncertain.

Sherlock waves a hand. "This. You have always provided backup and... support. The addition of physical intimacy is not actually new either, and in its current form not inappropriate within the bounds of close friendship. And yet."

"Do you want me to stop? Bit of a rush on this case; I don't want to distract you." John goes to step back but Sherlock grabs his hand and pins it to his shoulder.

"No. It's... nice."

"Nice?" John feels the corners of his mouth tug up, and he runs his hands up Sherlock's neck into his hair and back down to his shoulders.

"Yes. I find myself soothed and focused simultaneously, though it's unclear as to why that should be so."

"It makes sense to me," John says. Sherlock tips his head up to look at him. He looks exhausted and young, and John wraps his arms around him. "This is what I meant before. Everything's not different, just... well we've always had a bond, right? That's... honestly the only reason why I'm open to trying this at all. So yes, if you want it, this is what we can do."

Sherlock leans back against him and closes his eyes. "You are immensely helpful to me in all areas of my life, John," he says, putting his palms together and his fingertips to his lips. 

John takes a shaky breath. "Thank you. Do you want to run through the case for me step by step and see if that shakes something loose in your brain?"

"I suppose it can't hurt." Sherlock launches into a monologue. John lets the words wash over him, repeating bits and asking questions on occasion, to make Sherlock do the mental manoeuvrings necessary to explain his thoughts to another person.

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaims after saying something seemingly inconsequential about the kidnap victim's shoes, "Oh! I – call Lestrade –" 

Everything becomes chaos and rushing about for several hours, everyone running on adrenaline and caffeine until the kidnapped girl is found, teary and clinging but unharmed. Time seems to stretch and compress around them through the endless waiting and questioning, John holding himself upright and awake through sheer will. Sherlock is alternately viciously abrasive and visibly wilting where he stands. 

John gets Sherlock home with the last of his energy reserves. He decides that food can wait until the morning, and they pass out entangled and still clothed on top of Sherlock's duvet.

\---

Sherlock wakes long before John, judging by the fact that he's showered, dressed, and reading a book on medicinal plants on the bed beside John when John opens his eyes. 

"Shows a great deal of trust," Sherlock says. 

"Uh?" John rubs both eyes and presses the heels of his hands into his forehead. 

"You used to wake at the slightest noise, but I've been in and out for hours and close enough to you that I could have killed you in at least half a dozen ways at several different times, and you didn't even stir."

"Not good," John mutters without moving.

"I wasn't saying I would have done, that's the point."

John can't stop his mouth from twitching at Sherlock's offended tone of voice, and Sherlock makes a pleased noise. 

"I got some eggs and bread from Mrs Hudson," he says, turning a page. "Get up and make breakfast."

John groans. "Make it yourself."

"I fetched the ingredients," Sherlock says with a wave. He's staring at the book too intently. John narrows his eyes.

"What aren't you telling me?" He props himself up on one elbow and looks around, but everything seems normal – no strange items in the room, no noxious or suspicious smells. "Did you do something when I was sleeping?"

"Showered and dressed and got a book, obviously." Sherlock's eyes dart over to meet his.

"To me, Sherlock. Did you do anything... relevant to me?"

"No." Sherlock hesitates and John braces himself. "Well. Observed you for... some time. I know that's generally considered a bit..."

John smiles. "Is that all? You can observe all you like. Sort of used to it by now. Bit creepy I suppose, watching me while I sleep, but all part of your charm really."

Sherlock turns to stare at him as John stretches and gets up.

"Like what you see?" John says, unable to resist posing a little.

Sherlock freezes, then looks John over, slow and lingering. "Shower and make breakfast," he says, one side of his mouth twitching up into a smile. "You're useless before you've eaten, and I'd like to conduct an exploratory study today."

He turns back to his book while John breathes through a surprising and overwhelming surge of arousal. 

"You ought to put the coffee on then," he says finally, pulling off his jumper and tossing it onto the bed, following it with his shirt. Sherlock makes a noncommittal sound and pretends to read, but John turns at the door and catches him looking, cheeks slightly flushed and lower lip between his teeth.

\---

They don't even manage to clear the mess from breakfast.

"Have you, ever?" John asks delicately, kissing his way down Sherlock's throat, stroking Sherlock's arms as Sherlock's fingers run through his hair. 

He can feel Sherlock swallow. "Does it matter?"

John pulls back to look at him. Sherlock looks a little overwhelmed, pressed against the refrigerator and breathing hard, but there's nothing in his face or body language that isn't enthusiastically consenting. "No," John says, though he's not going to deny curiosity. "Just stay honest with me, all right?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, and pulls him down the hallway to the bedroom.

It's like everything else with Sherlock – John's intrigued and impressed and caught up in the moment while simultaneously feeling as if he's Sherlock's only guide in an alien world.

Sherlock is shaking and not even trying to hide it, but he's also managing to unbutton John's shirt and kiss him like he's trying to map the inside of his mouth at the same time. He throws his own shirt across the room when John shoves it off his shoulders, and then gasps like he's been shocked when John runs his hands over his bare chest. The contrast of confidence and vulnerability is rapidly making John lose control as they get each other all the way naked, hands and lips on newly bared skin as they go.

"I want to memorize you," Sherlock says, his hands moving along John's sides, fingers light on his ribs and then up his chest to graze the edge of his scar. "I want to know everything about you, all that you like, all that I can do to you, all of it." 

"Oh God," John gasps, grabbing Sherlock's arms and tipping them both onto their sides. He rolls them until he can press Sherlock's shoulders into the bed and fit their hips together. 

It's a bit strange, angles and chest hair and the most obvious difference, another cock pressed up against his own, but having someone else clutch at him and move against him, all hot skin and sweat and need, yeah, that's all the same, all the things that he loves about sex. He wants, Jesus Christ he wants, it's been years since he's wanted this much.

Sherlock grabs John's hips and thrusts up and kisses him; John slides his hand between them before he can overthink it. 

Sherlock twitches so hard that he knocks their foreheads together. "That's – even better than I thought," he manages to say as John wraps his hand around both of them.

"You thought about this?"

He looks down into Sherlock's face – his eyes all pupil, his mouth red and wet, his hair a wreck spread across his pillow. He strokes and watches Sherlock's eyelashes flutter, his head tilt back.

"Yes," Sherlock says, chest heaving. "I've thought about everything."

John's mind is flooded with images of 'everything,' images of Sherlock in this bed alone thinking about what he wanted to do with John, Sherlock's hand on himself. He groans and kisses Sherlock hard, Sherlock startling and then kissing back with equal force. 

"Should I –" Sherlock gasps after a few minutes, his hand sliding along John's side towards his belly, and it's an appealing image but John's got a rhythm going and he doesn't want to lose it, doesn't want to throw either of them out of the moment.

"Too many hands, not enough space, let me drive this time," is what he says, and Sherlock moans against his throat.

"God, yes, your voice," John mutters, speeding his hand, "Sherlock, oh fuck."

Sherlock tightens his legs against John's thighs and bites John's lip, carefully and then harder when John makes a noise deep in his throat. John nips back, soothes with his tongue as Sherlock's hips start twitching reflexively in time with his panting breaths.

"John, I'm –" Sherlock cuts himself off, sucking in air. John can feel Sherlock's thighs shaking against him, Sherlock's fingers spasming where they're clutching at his bicep and hip, and then John's coming onto his own hand and Sherlock's belly, caught by surprise. 

He rearranges his hand, now dripping slick; Sherlock gasps loudly and says "Please –" and "John –" and comes within seconds with his whole body shaking, his nails digging into John's skin, his face pressed into John's shoulder. 

"Christ," John says. He flops to the side to avoid landing on Sherlock and they just lie there breathing for a moment.

John reaches out with an arm that feels boneless, grabs a handful of tissues from the bedside table and passes a couple over. 

"Well," Sherlock says, voice rough and satisfied.

"Well," John agrees. 

"Fuck."

"Yes, I thought the fuck went well," John says before he can stop himself. There's a pause, and then Sherlock laughs, a startled burst that dissolves into shared chuckles. 

Sherlock rolls onto his side and kisses John's cheek, just a quick press of lips. It's almost painfully sweet, and John's chest lurches as he turns too, draping an arm over Sherlock's waist and studying his face. 

"You're fantastic," John says, and is amused to see Sherlock flush. It reminds him of the very beginning of their partnership, and he wants now as he wanted then to put that expression on Sherlock's face as much as possible. 

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something and then looks briefly aghast. He flings himself out of bed and launches himself naked across the room and out the door. John's too taken aback to do anything but stare at his vanishing arse.

Sherlock's head and one shoulder appear in the doorway. "That was poor manners, correct? The post-coital period is an important bonding time, but a liver may explode and —"

"Go, go," John says, relieved and attempting not to laugh. 

Sherlock hesitates, drumming his fingers on the doorframe. "I want you to know that I appreciate you, John, and –"

"I appreciate not having exploded organs all over our kitchen," John says, and flops back on the bed, grinning. "Take care of whatever you're doing to the liver and come back, idiot."

"Yes. I will," Sherlock says, and John chuckles to himself as he listens to Sherlock's frantic dash. 

He's never been so content in his life, and he doesn't care what that says about his sanity. He called Sherlock a madman on the day they met, after all; they'll just be mad together for the rest of their days. There's nothing for it.

He smiles up at the ceiling, and then he hears a soft and disturbingly meaty whoomph.

\---

John is standing by the window in the dark, watching the sky lighten behind the clouds. It's just barely raining, the streets shining and the few people out at this hour walking with their hoods or collars up, hurrying along the pavement.

"Nightmare," Sherlock says quietly from behind him. He slides both arms around John. John leans back into him and sighs. 

"Yeah. And then just too awake. Didn't want to disturb you."

"Mmm." Sherlock presses his face against John's neck and breathes in. John smiles. He wonders if Sherlock's ever thought of tracking him by scent; he's pretty sure he knows the answer.

They stand there in comfortable silence for a few minutes, looking out at their city, until Sherlock's mobile goes off in his dressing gown pocket. 

"Lestrade," John says, at the ringtone. "The decapitation case, I bet."

Sherlock fishes the phone out, keeping one hand on John's hip as John turns to face him.

"Good morning, Lestrade. Yes? Another one?" Sherlock meets John's eyes, and John mirrors Sherlock's slow grin. "Identical? I doubt it." He pauses. "Now?" Sherlock raises a brow; John nods. "We'll be there. Give us forty five minutes and try to keep anyone from... Fine. I know."

John motions and Sherlock pulls a face. "John wants to know if you want coffee and breakfast. Just for you, not your bunch of incompetents... yes. Keep your order simple, I don't want to spend all morning in a queue. Fine, fine, all right. No, that place on... Yes. Fine."

He ends the call and drops the phone on the desk, then spins to face John again. 

"Serial killer, John!" Sherlock grabs his hips and they grin at each other. "Decapitating serial killer! Why decapitation? Seems inefficient. But multiple victims almost exactly the same, must be a reason. Marvellous."

"Yes, all right, get the morbid excitement out of your system now and not at the crime scene, thanks." John can't keep the amusement out of his voice; he doesn't even try. "Forty five minutes?"

"Mmm," Sherlock says, stroking John's hipbones. "Accounting for the cab ride in average traffic for this time of day and the stop for coffee and scones..." He ducks his head down to kiss John, sliding his hands up John's ribs.

"Timed this, have you?" John says as his t-shirt is pulled over his head.

Sherlock grins at him. "I need you naked in the shower in one minute 45 seconds."

"Do you now?" John tucks his fingers in Sherlock's pyjama waistband, pulls the drawstring. "Will it throw off your calculations if I tell you I need you on your knees in the bathtub in one minute 55 seconds?"

"Already accounted for," Sherlock says with a smirk, dropping his pyjama bottoms and shrugging off his dressing gown. "I bet you I can trim 15 seconds off of my record time."

"You just want to beat my record time," John says, and drops his own trousers. "I bet you can't. I'm going to play dirty, and there's a decapitating serial killer. You don't stand a chance."

"Time's a wasting, John," Sherlock says. He grins and he grabs John's hand and John follows him through the kitchen and down the hall, tugged along and laughing.


End file.
